


Fragments of the arthurian series of novels I want to write but it seems I can't

by cukibola



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anyways I'll be telling on the title of each chapter, Attempt at Humor, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Excalibur, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Fluff and Angst, Holy Grail, Humor, If you know me you already know what I ship and I don't ship, M/M, Magic, Medieval Medicine, Mild Gore, More fantastical than historical, Multi, Smut, if there's any kind of controversial content outside violence it's probably only going to be implied, maybe I don't promise anything, there are probably more characters but those are the ones I can think of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21746836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cukibola/pseuds/cukibola
Summary: It's what the title says: I want to write an Arthurian-based series of novels, but for reasons it seems impossible for me to do so, and this may help like if they were notes or character/ship/situation study.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

Welcome to some Arthurian fragments I create. I hope you enjoy them!


	2. Ector

Had you asked anybody around the city about the ruinous castle that elevated in the hill, they may have told you of the glorious times in which it had served as Vortimer’s main base in his wars against his father, and how it had been shacked so mercilessly by the underlings of the cruel Rowenna and the even worse Vortigern, traitor to the island and his own family. However, it was more likely they would have told you of the family that now inhabited it: Anna, daughter of Vortimer; her husband Ector and their three children. The only people that sometimes lived there with them in longer amounts of time were Pedrawd Bedrydant and his son Bedwyr. They talked about a man of the forests, a pagan witch and a little girl as well; so far of that trio only the girl was known around the city, little Angelica of the kind smile. 

However, those people would only remain there for the winter, taking advantage of the little refuge the half-demolished castle would offer. In those cold days sometimes Ector, the anonymous man of the forest, Pedrawd and the local bishop, Baldwin, would go to the tavern to warm themselves up around jars and jars of liquor. The kids were outside, and haring their laughs and screams served them to calm their concerns towards them and focus them on Ector, who had just emptied his own keg for the fourth time in a row. “At home I would drink twenty like these and call it a day,” he would boast when asked to stop, no discernible malice or drunkenness on his voice when doing so. Whether he was very good at hiding the effects of alcohol or simply was as resilient as you would expect from somebody of his size, he never said. 

He was a funny fellow, Ector. If asked he would tell you about that one time he fought against a giant in Coedig Wyllt… or was it on Coill Fiáin? Fôret Sauvage even? “Who gives a fuck? It’s one less fucking giant in this world!” Or maybe he would tell about that one time he slayed a horrifying witch that had cursed an entire village with nothing but a very well-thrown rock and got a boat as a prize. “But the damned wicked cunt cursed me on her last breath, and the boat sank on its first trip!” Oh, and let’s not forget about the time he was able to defeat an entire army… by digging a very big hole in the ground. “Not very heroic, but very effective, really”. The forest man would shake his head as Ector decided to invite his friends to another round on the name of his old quests and adventures, until Baldwin’s head clashed against the table and the priest began snoring. Ector would then ask for something to paint his face. Thanks to him the assistants to the Christmas mass would be keeping their laughs upon seeing a vulgar drawing and/or comment on Baldwin’s face. 

This time the red-haired man was talking of a time in which he went near a cauldron of abundance. Where was the cauldron? Who was its owner? “Does that shit really matter, I just know it was full of food floating on even more alcohol” and as he was emptying this delicious content a woman approached him, and not a friendly beautiful one, for “the damned hag” had a long spanking stick and the expression “of a dragon who had not been fed for the last year”. Pedrawd asked jokingly about the identity of this supposed woman whose sister was the witch that sank his boat. Baldwin was now emptying his third jar, inspired by the image of the cauldron or trying to erase the one of Ector taking off his clothes on his seduction strategy. “She had a terrible expression, yes, but I was young, hot-blooded and drunk, what else to do? Besides, she did smile when she saw…” To be honest, even the forest man was also drinking more than usual. 

A devilish smile was appearing on Ector’s face thinking of not one, but two possible victims of his art. However, he got interrupted by the screams of the children. He mindlessly got up and rushed towards the door an in the cold exterior. Non run to his leg, and Angelica hid behind him. Arthur was crying as he approached his father, and Kay was still trying to get off the guard grip by insulting him. Ector took no time to hit the man in the head, knocking him off. He heard some more insults and grunted, telling his son to join the others with a movement of his head. “But…” “Go inside the tavern, now!” he shouted, his face red of fury. He was obeyed in that instant and decided to face the group attending the man that was starting to awake. 

“Who are you and what are you doing near my lands?” he angrily asked, containing himself as best as possible. He knew who they were and who had send them, he would recognize that stupid crest—and even the stupid idea of having family crests—in the distance. 

The man in the horse took off his helmet. Ector would recognize Uther Pendragon, the High King flattening his dirty ass on the throne that should be his, in any situation. Something on his head told him he wasn’t there to discuss about politics; after all, if that had been the case he would have gone to threaten Anna instead of attacking his son. Was he trying to kidnap Kay in order to blackmail them, maybe? After all, a descendant of Vortimer could be very dangerous for his position. No, had that been the case he would have accuse them of unspeakable crimes during the war against Tintagel and exiled them; it would look better in those history books that claimed Gorlois a criminal and wife-beater who opposed to the “true love” between him and Igraine. All of the options only made him clench his fists and teeth even harder. 

“What are you doing here?”

“You should treat your High King with more respect,” answered Uther without dismounting his horse and circling him, “but of course I wasn’t expecting a savage like you to do so.”

“The High King has received a question, and he should answer it; but of course I wasn’t expecting a…” he would have loved to say “criminal like you to do so” but had to remind himself Uther had several guards with him, a horse and his sword at hand; he had nothing but a bunch of intoxicated companions and scared kids.

“You weren’t expecting, what?” Ector didn’t answer the mockery, breathing heavily and not out the cold. Uther seemed satisfied and finally gave him the answer: “I came here for my son.”

“Your son? Well, I’m afraid your stupid guard was trying to grab one of mine, so you might be a bit lost in this regard.”

“No. That damned ginger brute is clearly yours,” Uther tried to hide a blackened spot on his cheek; otherwise it would be really shameful for the High King to have been burned by a seven-year-old, “I’m talking about the other one.”

“Arthur?”

“That one.”

“Arthur is as mine as Kay and Non are, so now your High Majesty can go back home.”

Ector turned, ready to go back to the tavern, but then he heard a guard laughing. “Have you heard him? He thinks the kid with dark curly hair is his own! How stupid!” Why did he freeze? He did not know. The man approached him, way too overconfident even though he had seen him knock one of his fellows down. This giggling man grabbed his arm, awakening something that had not sparkled in Ector’s mind for a very long time. “We should just get rid of this Irish pieces of shit and grab the correct kid…”

He was quick: he turned again, on the same spot; he grabbed the soldier’s hand and threw him to the ground, falling on his knees; he then put his hands on his damned nut-sized head and crushed it with his own hands. Giggles barely had any time to scream in pain and horror as his skull burst into pieces. The body fell in front of Uther’s horse, the neck still spouting blood. The image of this liquid on Ector’s hands and face, and his angry expression that let his white and sharp teeth of a hound shine over the red, definitely scared the other men to the point they paralyzed and even one of them fainted. Uther’s mouth and eyes were open in surprise and horror. Oh, what, did that proud Romano-British example of a king, general and leader fear an impoverished stray Irishman with no titles and claims like him? Ector attempted a sarcastic smirk, but probably only caused an even more threatening sneer; their peer’s gray matter all over his beard probably helped to that. 

“Would your High Majesty and his beloved companions please leave my domains and my family in this exact moment?” he asked with all the cockiness and fake politeness the situation allowed him. 

Uther went silent for a couple of seconds, grabbed the reins of his horse and turned, “We are leaving.”

“But…” tried to reply another soldier. In other circumstances Ector would have even admired his bravery and balls, the three of which disappeared when encountering the menacing look of not a man but a wolf ready to take another life if necessary. 

They did the wise thing and followed their leader without any complain. Ector grunted again and tried to clean his face, not getting much results, but at least taking off most of the solid bits. Nobody dared to defy his decision of going back to the castle, just like all of them gave quick looks at the abandoned corpse. Now, with his face all clean, his hair and beard still wet and wearing new clothes, Ector simply decided to dig a quick grave and recite an even quicker prayer to the dead man as the cold became sharper on him. 

Only Ector visited the grave.


	3. Melora

She had seen her father as worried as that so very few times, this one felt unnatural. Of course, he would had looked like that, pale and haggard from the lack of sleeping and yet unable to stay in the same place, more times, but he probably had been kind enough to cover it from Melora. Her mother was in the same room, her face serious and not revealing at all if she actually cared for the situation about Tryphine: was she jealous, was she happy? Maybe she should ask Nimue, the Lady of the Lake also present in the improvised meeting in the thrones’ room; if it had been done in the Round Table several, if not all, the knights would be expected to attend what felt almost like a family reunion. 

Seleucia raised her tired eyes from the book she had been examining for hours, if not days: “The law is clear: all queens accused of committing adultery must be burned”. Their father threw himself over the book that had been redacted almost half a century prior, and read with his very own eyes the punishment, twice, thrice even. Her mother watched him deny and throw the book away in a burst of rage, claiming it to be wrong and wicked. Gwenhyvwar rested her hand on Arthur’s shoulder, comforting him. Melora’s eyes opened wide in surprise: was she really trying to comfort him over the fate of his lover? She still remembered how rightfully mad and angry she had been when Merlin had appeared in the court, Krimhilda asking her “husband” to recognize their child. Was this one really that different? Unless…

“What about rape?” asked Arthur with all his desperation in his voice, “What if she had been raped?”

“Sir Gawain would be supposed to defend her honor, which he did upon killing the knights in the very crime scene” the light of hope in his eyes lasted little, however: “But the witnesses consider that queen Tryphine willingly committed adultery, and that sir Gawain acted in a fit of madness he should be answering for in court as well.”

Arthur’s face froze. He left Gwenhyvwar’s gesture, trying to keep his rage under control, and walked straight to his throne, but didn’t sat down. He placed his hands on the object’s arms, giving his back to the people with him, and took a very deep breath. He looked so destroyed, so defeated… Melora wished to just go to him and embrace him like she had done whenever she was back from any quest back when her brother would have joined them; she knew if she had done it, it would have only felt like the one when she had brought Gyneth back and Arthur had cried out loud, free at last from the stress of losing another child that had been stalking him. So she did nothing. He recomposed—at least, he acted as if he had recomposed—pretty quickly anyways, although he couldn’t be hiding his red eyes and the shaking of his chin for much longer. She did then advance towards her father, but he stopped her. 

“I’m fine,” he lied, “I’m sure I could still prove her innocence somehow.”

“Maybe there were other witnesses!” ventured to say Gwenhyvwar.

“Or maybe we could find something to prove the current ones were bribed by Kervoura, and at least invalidate the accusation” added Nimue. 

His face lit with hope again, but before he could do anything stupid and claim he would leave his position as king and embark on a quest, Melora raised her hand. “I’ll do it, father. High King Arthur of the Britons, please, allow me, dame Melora of the Blue Sleeves, to take this quest.” 

She wasn’t happy with how the situation had turned: she would have never expected to have her brother murdered, to have to run away with her mother for a while, to have seen her cousin kidnap her sister, to have seen her parents’ marriage tear apart, to have her father take a lover, and apparently to have her mother do so as well. Nobody that she knew, however, had had much better luck: even Sir Bedwyr had lost his wife at that point. No, not even Tryphine had had a much better life; and now there were, not only a brother willing to do those unspeakable crimes in order to get rid of his sister, but also people willing to condemn a victim. 

And she was a dame of the Round Table above anything else, and her mission was to defend those in need and fight against all the injustice in the world. Arthur nodded, no need to maintain the formalities, and sighed loudly. “Be careful, Melora; I couldn’t bear to lose you as well”. Melora turned to her mother, waiting for her response. She was as serious as she had been at the beginning, trying to hide whatever emotions she was feeling, but she could see on her eyes a sparkle of happiness, a happiness, she knew was rooted on her pride. Seleucia quickly declared that dame Melora, the Knight of the Blue Sleeves was to start a quest now, a quest to be conducted with honor and respect in order to defend the name of the High Queen Tryphine. She left the room determined to find whatever proofs she could find in order to prove the second queen’s innocence.

She wouldn’t have taken a squire with her for this mission. She remembered her first adventure, when she had been accompanied by Lancelot forwards into the East to collect all those strange objects and rescue Orlando; she remembered her last adventure getting deeper into the Otherworld guiding Roland. Her heart ached a bit whenever she remembered the first quest and those that had gone between that one and the last, so she just revisited them for less than a heartbeat, and prepared to go to her room, get her armor and ride to the crime scene. The views would let her see what houses were nearby, and what kind of people Kervoura could have bribed; she was a princess, she could top whatever his offer was quite easily. 

She was expecting to go as untroubled as possible, but somebody grabbed her wrist. Her cousin Mordred was standing still next to the main door. He had clearly been listening everything. And he did look worried, as worried as Arthur himself. Melora didn’t know what to expect of him anymore: at first she had liked him, as he used to be funny and full of weird ideas she had appreciated, but ever since the Grail Quest had failed and his mother had been murdered there was no trace of the mildly-mad genius he used to be. She actually understood what he felt, and would have probably expected some sympathy on both their sides had it not been for his sudden rejection of his cousin, who he avoided even in the halls. Why all of a sudden he didn’t want to spend some time with her out of all the other people in the castle? She never understood, and so she was surprised he was trying to talk to her immediately after taking up a quest and even straight to her face. Melora could see he had been crying as well. 

“Are you really going to try to prove her innocence?” Mordred asked, freeing his grip and not bothering to hide his low voice. 

“I am.”

“I’m going with you!” His voice wasn’t shaky, but despite all his conviction, something on him screamed hopelessness and regret, as if he had done something very wrong… even thought he was actually offering himself to help her undo the damage caused by an ambitious and cruel man. 

“I would rather go alone, if you don’t mind,” she wasn’t on the mood to maintain this argument: after all, time was acting against her and Tryphine. 

“Tryphine helped uncover my mother’s real murderer. I owe her,” he whispered. So heartbroken he looked, the spirit of hope and adventure, and the belief that all evils can be fought just with the power of goodness Melora felt in her first quest took over, finally convincing her to give him an opportunity. After all, two people would cover more tracks than one and who knows if Kervoura had put some traps on the way. 

“Go get your armor and your horse; we leave immediately.”

Mordred’s face lit up a bit and run through the corridors. So did Melora, opening the chest that laid under her bed and uncovering the armor with the blue sleeves.


	4. Morgan

If she had to describe her life in Rheged during the first year, she would have said “boring”. The curse had been lifted at last, and for that she was thankful, but that didn’t mean she was happy at all. She had found she was pregnant again, and that the tall, young man she had embraced that night was actually the old king Uriens. And apparently he had gone through a similar experience, having confessed her he had seen a woman of around his age. If he had only accepted the marriage, it had been simply because she was one of Igraine’s daughters that had been pregnant with his children and kicked out of the nunnery at last: a pathetic combination of pity and attempted ambition on his behalf. Morgan hated the idea she had been in such a low point somebody had actually felt the need of protecting her instead of the obligation. Uriens hated the idea of enraging the back then High Queen. It had been a quick wedding with nothing remarkable on it, a mere formalization of the two to come.

And so had happened: she had named them Owain and Morvydd, and was glad to see how much they looked like her. When they had opened their eyes, of the same color as her, she couldn’t help but to remember for a minimal second how Mabon’s were completely different; she had then buried those feelings and faked a smile for the posterity. Uriens hadn’t complained, his gaze on the only one of all his bastards he had acknowledged, also named Owain; had Morgan known this, she would have named her son differently. This bastard and, more importantly, the father to make him, would do better if they didn’t meddle with the succession and her son of rosy cheeks and green eyes became king of Rheged and Avalon once his father was no more. Morgan didn’t ask for that much: for a good marriage for Morvydd back in Cornwall, for the throne for Owain—for Mabon to be back, a quiet voice in her had whispered. Uriens had shown how clever he was, he better be giving. 

He had already failed in giving her what she asked for herself, spending her days in a wooden fortress at the top of a hill where people looked at her with strange eyes. Disguised as a crow she had heard they were afraid of her, on how she was a witch, or even worse, a fairy; how they mistrusted her for her youth and apparent arrogance and superiority complex; and how they were already betting how her children were to be a disgrace for the land that will lose it to the Saxon or the Irish threat. Morgan would then lose control and try to attack them as a bird; she would later recover her senses and simply patiently wait. They did come for her help once they had been afraid of the illness. Morgan then had smiled her falsest smile again and given them a remedy to heal their bodies and their tongues that would better talk highly of their queen; whether of fear or naïveté she didn’t care. Of course, naiveté would allow her to repeat her tricks if needed, but fear, had said Anne, would avoid the need for them.   
When not spying on the population of the kingdom, Morgan liked to pay visits and receive news of her relatives: Elaine in that nunnery, Anne preparing for the war, Cador marrying a Byzantine princess, her mother glad to be free at last… and that last and lost brother fighting her very own husband. Little did that puppet in Merlin’s hands know he soon would be facing his biggest threat yet: 

More than six, almost seven in fact, feet tall, as strong as any other man and as versed in the fight as all of them. Euron the Blonde was training for the future trial by combat against whatever champion Arthur was to send. Uriens was particularly proud of Euron, Morgan wondering if they were somewhat related or simply spoke a king that, unable to fight as he used to, now took pride on his best warrior who had never met defeat. So proud he was, he seemed to prefer not to listen when people whispered on how the knight sneaked inside the queen’s chamber at night; after all, what would two women do alone in the night?, he usually said, not understanding that they did the same as if Euron had been one of the men she could easily bring down. 

In the arena, she was already defeating a particularly brave one that kissed the ground sooner than he probably had expected. A smile was drawn on Morgan’s face, a sincere one this time, as Euron took her helmet off, revealing her golden hair, her blue eyes and her serious expression. She helped her opponent wake up, distracting herself for a crucial moment in which he was able to grab a knife from the place he had fallen before, and almost nail it on her neck. Morgan was about to make a spell, but the practicality was useful in this case: the leather protection repelled the rather blunt knife. Having realized the attempt of murder from a humiliated idiot, Euron grabbed him from his neck, lifted him in the air and threw the imbecile against the walls of the arena. They heard some whimpering more appropriated for a dog, and he finally left. 

Cador had said on his letters that Arthur had committed a mistake: he had people as tall, and even taller, than Euron; but he was being championed by Lisanor of Quimper-Corentin while sending them away to complete some side missions. Euron could defeat the duchess with closed eyes, and even if not… Well, Morgan always had some tricks under her sleeve. After all, he had sent Merlin to France, probably to help that whoremonger, Leodegrance. So, so stupid… Cador was right: he was probably a good person deep down, but nobody fit to be king. He should have been something completely different. What, she couldn’t think as Euron looked straight to her position. Morgan’s heart raced inside her chest, and her cheeks burned. She waved back to her beloved knight and flashed an even bigger smile.


	5. Kay

He woke up in a semi-dark room, with only the light of candles to allow for some visibility. He felt the ropes on his ankles, and the chains upon his wrists and hands. They had been clever, more clever than Bouffreux or another run-of-the-mill idiot trying to gain the reward; they had waited until he had been alone, with no glamour and then they had ambushed him from behind. He had quickly prayed in his mind for Bedwyr to have been the one to capture him, but as his eyes got used to the environment and his head stopped shaking he distinguished the figure couldn't have been more different than his friend: a rather old man with skin tanned and full of wrinkles as if he had been under the sun all of his life, in full armor and with a sword on his belt, a knife in his hand and another set of pointy objects more than likely made of rusty iron on the table. Kay recognized the black cross on the breastplate and soon recognized that man's accent: he was French, from Brittany. Kay knew way too much he wasn't very well loved in those lands, having castrated ed and killed their pretty boy.

Who knew, maybe the imposter had decided to look to that land of unlearned criminals, sickness and dirtiness after the accusation of murdering Llacheu, knowing full well they would be on board. In fact, it wouldn't be that far of a stretch to consider that they had been the ones to frame him in the first place; their coward but twisted minds were more than capable to plan so. The Breton came now closer, and Kay swore he had seen him before, but still couldn't guess in which context they could have met nor, and more importantly, his identity. He heard a metallic clank behind him, the Breton made a gesture telling his companions to stop. Of course, behind him there were two other knights whose faces weren't in display but that carried the same symbol. He couldn't believe it: he was going to be killed by a bunch of frogs.

"I think we may as well start now," said their leader, the old man, "should I call you sir, despite of the terrible crimes hanging over your head?"

"Well, that depends. Are you a sir yourself?"

"Indeed I am."

"Well, if a despicable snake like you is, I'd rather receive the treatment."

The Breton laughed at his occurrence, but didn't stop one of his companions when they placed a piece of fabric over his hand and hit it with a baton, with enough strength to make him scream of pain, feeling each of his veins break... but not his bones. For the moment. "I think we should start again. Sir Kay Ceinfarfog, previous knight of the Round Table and seneschal of Camelot, prince of Dyfed, Gwerddonau Lion and Coill Fhiáin, you have been formerly accused of the murder of the prince and heir sir Llacheu Pendragon in order to destabilize Lloegyr due to your family alliances with the Saxon kingdom of Northumbria and your new allegiance to the outlaw witch Morgan of Avalon. How do you declare yourself?"

Kay wondered how they could knew of his relationship with Morgan already, but a bigger question was on his mind: "I'm innocent. Oh, and Northumbria is populated by Angles, actually."

The Breton sighed. One of the henchmen placed the fabric on his left knee, and repeated the operation. Even if the pain was comparable to the one before—broken veins, intact bones miraculously and for short—, this time Kay was able to bite his tongue, even causing himself blood. But he didn't scream. It wasn't a matter of pride now, it wasn't a matter of strength even. It was a matter of satisfaction, more exactly the one he was denying them by doing so. The Breton moved his head in disapproval, as if he were a disappointed father. No matter how patronizing he might act, he would be getting no answer. He even put his hand on his head, as if he were a priest forgiving him; how useless it was, for he had done nothing wrong.   
"Let's retry, and I hope this time you're more cooperative with us, alright? Sir Kay Ceinfarfog, previous knight of the Round Table and seneschal of Camelot, prince of Dyfed, Gwerddonau Lion and Foraois Fhiáin, father of the queen Kelemon the Beautiful of Northumbria and of Garanwyn, you have been formerly accused of the murder of the prince and heir sir Llacheu Pendragon in order to destabilize Lloegyr due to your family alliances with the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Northumbria and your new allegiance to the outlaw witch Morgan of Avalon. How do you declare yourself?"

He had even dared to mention his children this time! Instinctively, he showed him his teeth, sharp and bloodied, and shaked his body trying to unsuccessfully free himself. Fire would only let him with the metal stuck on his arms; becoming a giant would only make him more of a target for them. Maybe he should use the ice this time, but he had been only able to use it once long time ago. His children were safe in Whitby, he reminded himself, he had to be calm. "I. Declare. Myself. Innocent!" he answered, chewing every word and spatting them on his face, "Innocent!"

They placed the fabric on his temple to not cause any lethal damage, and they hit his cheek with such strength he literally could only see red for some seconds as his head swinged so violently his neck was also hurt. A tooth fell on the ground, a spot of red towards it and a thread of the same color running from his mouth. Kay involuntarily whined this time, and when he looked again back at the Breton's face—or at least tried, now seeing everything blurred—it hurt more than the two previous times. The Breton was now smiling like a grandfather.

"Sir Kay Ceinfarfog, previous..."

"I'm innocent," he interrupted, his mind roaring, but his voice low and hard, "I didn't kill my nephew, I would never do such a thing, and you know it. I'm innocent!"

"I know," whispered the Breton on his ear, "but she really wants your confession; if true or not doesn't matter."

Once again, that mysterious "she". She was clearly the one holding Arthur captive, that they knew, and now she could be associated to Brittany. He wished he could tell Morgan about it. What if she had flown there? She could be in danger now! That woman was more than willing to do anything to stop anybody who might try to steal Arthur from her, but she was no Annowre. She was more dangerous. He had to escape from there somehow and find Morgan, no matter how mad she would be at him after his cruel words, and tell her, even if she dismissed him once again, at least so she would know. His chair was made of wood, they had metallic armors, he still had his tricks and his teeth...

"You want the confession? I'll give you the confession; but come closer, I don't want to scream lies out loud," and once the Breton was really close to his face he took no time in biting his nose. He had already used his teeth as a weapon before, and no matter how much the Breton struggled, or when one of the other knights broke his arm with the baton, he wasn't going to break him free so easily. He even tightened his bite, clenching his jaws due to the pain, in fact.

He only broke away when the nose separated from the face and Kay spitted it. The Breton screamed out loud, and the other two were more than ready to kill him now. Ignoring the pain and doing an inhumane effort he stood up, now charging with the chair on his back. He was now slower and bended, his range of vision limited to undefined legs, but still got a solid hit on one of them, but without enough strength to break the chair. It was when he combined a blow with the enemy's charge that he felt the wood on his back breaking. The Breton screamed at his companions to attack his legs, but it was too late already.

His broken arm still hurt like Hell, feeling how the bones slowly separated due to the weight of the chains and the remains of the chair. He screamed like a madman, hitting the first knight with those remains, not to harm him but to try to get rid of them as much as possible and free himself from the chains. The other one attempted to stab him, and he would have succeeded had he not thrown himself to the floor in the last second. The bones may have as well broken even more, but there was a new advantage: this second idiot had just nailed his sword on his mate's neck. He was still paralyzed and shocked, and Kay took full advantage of that, finally getting rid of the wood—and of that idiot's helmet—in one blow. Then, with his healthy free hand he grabbed the sword as the first one fell on his knees. Just in time, for the Breton had recovered from his wound and was now coming at him, and he avoided the danger in the last second once again.

Whoever the Breton was, he clearly was a skilled knight despite his age, a skilled knight whose two arms and sight were in perfect condition. Kay was younger, yes, no lad, but younger. However, he was using only one arm while the other was tearing down, all while still seeing blurry figures. There was only one way to finally get rid of him, and that was the fire, he thought. Having badly rejected his opponent's sword, he threw his against him, and extended his flaming hand towards him, ready to burn his face, grab the keys and run away as better as he could. He was so close...

But then the other knight, the one he had thought would remain unconscious for longer, hit his leg with the helmet, deviating him. The Breton took all advantage from this, and without doubting a second , trampled on his bended leg and he did so charging all of his weight on his foot. The Breton fell over, but so did Kay, screaming and shouting out of pain as the bone peaked outside his skin. He then felt the helmet once again, now right on his face one time and other and other, until his nose was reduced to a pulp and part of his front teeth crushed into pieces. As he was about to fell unconscious at last, they poured water over him, waking him up. The younger knight grabbed him in a rather lethal embrace, in which he put especial pressure on both broken limbs and clawed his nails all over his face in order to avoid him to headbutt and break free.

"In other circumstances you would look like a young couple," laughed the pride-hurt Breton, looking for something on his table that would mean even more of a torture for Kay, "In fact, if it weren't because a pervert like you might even enjoy it, have no doubt I would turn you into the prison's particular whore."

Kay wished he could answer something, but the imprisoner tightened his grip and nailed his face even harder. The Breton was carrying a needle, a needle he introduced between his nail and his little finger really slowly, and no matter how much he bit his tongue to drown his screams, he still did it anyways. "Let's start all over again: Sir Kay Ceinfarfog, previous knight of the Round Table and seneschal of Camelot, prince of Dyfed, Gwerddonau Lion and Foraois Fhiáin, father of the queen Kelemon the Beautiful of Northumbria and of Garanwyn, the both of whom I swear I will bring here and use them as this prison's particular whores right in front of your eyes, you have been formerly accused of the murder of the prince and heir sir Llacheu Pendragon in order to destabilize Lloegyr due to your family alliances with the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Northumbria and your new allegiance to the outlaw witch Morgan of Avalon, who not only I'm going to drag from her hair right to this spot and give her the same treatment as your kids, I will do it myself as if I were a madman until you both bleed from screaming. How do you declare yourself?"

The Breton wasn't expecting the headbutt, neither did the one in charge of avoid it. He would have aimed from the old man's neck had not the other kick his maimed leg to a point he didn't even want to look at it. He might be whimpering and crying but he wasn't going to surrender and tell them what they wanted to say so easily. And they knew it, for the Breton now had a pair of clippers and placed them on his nail. "Do you want me to repeat your charges again, or should we go straight to the point in which you attack me and end up even worse?"

"You can shove those clippers right through your shaggy asshole, old fucker."

His head fell over and began turning around and around after he had pulled his nail off his finger. He heard a laugh, and the noseless man grabbed his hair, making him look straight into the wound first and then to his eyes. Those eyes had the cruel sparkle of somebody who had been wishing for this moment, not out of a particular hatred, but simply because he enjoyed to torture and break his victims down. "Look at you," he said, tearing down the second nail, "how pathetic your last effort was, trying to defend your children who will die in the hands of your people anyways and trying to defend a woman who doesn't and won't return your feelings ever. In fact, who would? Your first wife cheated on you, the second probably only accepted because she was pregnant. And that's not counting on whatever kind of disgusting acts you had with men that went nowhere either. In fact, you don't deserve even the slightest kind of sympathy: those who didn't hate you already now do. All your mates and peers of the Round Table think of you as a murderer and are hunting you down, and your family will repudiate you soon, if they haven't already, for the same reason."

"But I didn't..." he tried to answer, unfortunately with a voice sadder than usual, whether out of the physical pain or the emotional one. Because, even if he wasn't going to surrender and lie claiming to have killed Llacheu, the Breton was still right. He hadn't been running away from Bretons like them, he had been running away from Bedwyr, Gawain, Owain and other knights with care to not enter the territories of his father, who had been clear, they didn't accept criminals "like you". Finding Arthur was his only hope, and he had screwed it insulting the only person who not only he was starting to appreciate, but was also the only one who could help him. Like he always did. No wonder the others were so hell-bent on hunting him down. But at least, he always had had his brother, and no matter what, he would do anything possible to rescue him.

"Who cares if you actually did it or not. For them you did, and that's what matters to them."

"I declare myself innocent," he still repeated, head spinning, ears buzzing and a metallic taste on his mouth, "after all, they all believe like dumb sheep as well that Ban, Edern, Lanzo, Nentres or whatever names he used was the best man ever and not a blackmailing liar that would have sold his whore mother at the first opportunity. I bet they also believe he died with his tiny cock of frog still attached to his body, right?"

At the mention of their pretty boy, the Breton's features hardened, and so did the strength of the hugging knight. Without opening his mouth entirely, the Breton finally ordered: "Take him to a cell. If in an hour he's still alive, call all of our men and tell them they have a new one to relief themselves: I don't care if he enjoys it or not."

To say "take" would have been kind. He was dragged all around the prison and thrown into a random wall, the echoing of the metallic bars closing being his damnation. He did his best efforts to at least sit down, his back lying on the said wall. The angry knight began undoing his pants. He wasn't going to wait an hour, it seemed. 

"If you put that little sad berry in my mouth, I'll bite it off like your boss' nose," he said, still wondering where he had been able to regain at least some strength on his infamous tongue. 

"How are you going to do it? You barely have any teeth now! This is what you deserve, for killing my friend!"

"I didn't kill your friend, you did."

The kick on his stomach actually seemed tamed in comparison to the previous interrogation. They both heard a meowing, and as the knight was about to kick as well the black cat that had entered the cell through the bars, he became stone. The cat became human, and not any human. Morgan drew her hands to her mouth, as if containing herself. "Who did this to you?" she finally whispered, kneeling in front of him and seeing he was basically, and in other words, the human equivalent of a pile of trash. Kay tried to smile insolently, as if trying to show up he could stand much worse things and there would be no need to worry about it, even though he had, among other things, literal bones outside his leg. Then he remembered his front teeth were but dust and realized this was only much worse. 

He still had to deliver a message, however, "They're Bretons, they kidnapped Arthur and killed our nephew and he said he was going to..." 

"It's alright, it's alright," Morgan held his face, seemingly nervous enough to have shaky hands and voice, "don't make any kind of effort now. This is what we'll do: I'm going to make you fall profoundly asleep, turn you into something I can easily carry, and then arrive to a safer place quickly so I can cure you. Is it clear? Do you accept?"

He nodded. Immediately after, everything turned black as a pitch. This time he felt or dreamed nothing special. It was just darkness. Eventually, he felt something on his back, a mattress. Not an expensive and luxurious one, like the one back in Camelot; it wasn't even an average one, like the one in the Gaihom of his childhood. It was almost flattened, probably about to become trash really soon. The fabric itched as well. Maybe there were some parasites biting him already. Who gave a damn. He opened his eyes slowly, and recognized the place as the servants' quarters of some castle, which one he didn't know. He could see once again. He still had a headache, but nothing in comparison to before. His body also ached, and his leg especially; yet he had nothing broken anymore, he could see no bones pocking outside the flesh and his nose wasn't an absolute mess. He had nails again and teeth. Well, the teeth sounded and felt metallic, and a nearby fire confirmed that Morgan had probably melted some metal—silver, probably—and made some new ones. After all, she had part of a tooth made of silver.

And speaking of Morgan, she was sleeping in a nearby bed. Had this time really tire her so much? Kay heard the servants moving over their heads, she could sleep some time more without problem. Even if she wasn't stupid and probably had taken them to the castle of one of her allies, he still decided to remain awake just in case. He was hungry and thirsty, and yet he just sat down near her bed like a mere dog protecting his owner.

After all, that's what she was now, his owner. Supposedly their arrangement would be broken once they found Arthur, she then would be forgiven by him and all of her family, and he would reunite with his mates and friends... Except they both knew that wasn't going to happen. Her fame and sins extended over her children like a cold shadow they probably deep down resented; they may forgive her, but she wouldn't be allowed to forget. And for him, well, how was he even going to face the people who had dared to believe he would actually betray his own family like that? Maybe he should have been nicer, or maybe they should have realized his job consisted of trying to control them, a bunch of hot-headed idiots. There's a great difference between being a killjoy and being a criminal. But who cared anymore. Morgan, it seemed. In other circumstances this idea would have had such a different reaction on him...

Yet she had come back for him. She had healed him once again, when she could have just easily left him in that stinky cell to die, if not worse. This time it wasn't because she owed him somehow, but what seemed actual concern on her behalf. Probably the Breton was right, and she would never return his feelings; and who was to blame her, when not even him liked the idea that he might be attracted the slightest to her. However, something was clear, she wasn't willing to let him go. It didn't care if it was because she wanted a servant, not anymore. After all, not even in Camelot he was liked as such. It was nice to have somebody that cared for him enough to simply return, he concluded, even if it was simply out of interest. Maybe it would be better to leave Camelot...

Luckily, he quickly got over his dellusion, even scolding himself for how that thought could even arrive to his mind, thinking that if they thought so low of him that was their problem. He was going to rescue Arthur, his little brother, put him back on his throne and return to his position. If they had some dignity, they would be lowering their heads, and if he still had some dignity he would enjoy that spectacle. Right at the left side of his brother, that was his place, he reminded himself, and he would be back at this place no matter what. Fuck them.


	6. Tryphine

It was a man's voice, Tryphine had figured it out quickly. He had asked her if she could see him, at the very least listen to him, nervous despite his attempt to sound calm. This voice did not belong to any other man she had met so far, no knight nor the wizard not even her husband’s. He said he needed to talk to her, and, having realized this voice did not belong to the living, she had ignored him until he had mentioned Arthur. That voice had very important information concerning Arthur, and not a good one. 

That night, she had waited until Arthur went to bed besides her after discussing something with the wizard. She hated the wizard, and judging by the daggers in his gaze and the way his mouth twisted upon seeing her, it was more than returned. As always, he had asked, no, ordered Arthur to abandon her, to ship her back to Ireland and marry “the sovereignty goddess” at last. And, as always, Arthur had answered him that their marriage was a convenience one, that it would be easier to inherit Ireland than to just invade it, that this would left their troops ready to invade other lands if needed.   
She didn’t listen anymore, it was not as if they had married for love; Arthur had his mistress—mistresses, maybe—and he had told her so from the very beginning. What Tryphine didn’t understand was why then he would treat her so well, giving her control of this dreary castle, calling off any attempt of even mocking her, looking for her company and being kind to her in general. She had climbed to their bed and turned her back towards the door, looking as if she were asleep. Arthur had sighed behind her while undressing himself, and had lied on the bed as well. Tryphine just had to wait until his breath became slower. 

Their bedroom was the biggest one in the castle, placed in an inner tower over the Round Table room. There were some big, coloured windows, but only one looked outside, the smallest and thinest one. Arthur had closed the curtains, and the fireplace wasn’t lit, so there was barely no light inside. The ghost was speaking again, his smooth voice echoing in her head: “we’ll meet in the library”. How would she do so? All was dark! She then thought of the candelabra in the night table, and something—probably the ghost—lit those candles. 

Tryphine looked towards Arthur, to check if he was still asleep—and thinking of potential excuses so as to why she would be awake—twice, when she arose and held the candelabra, and when she was about to close the door. Arthur slept candidly, and Tryphine blushed thinking that he looked like an angel, except when looking to an angel eyes do not go to the opening of the nightdress and get lost on his body. She shook her head trying to forget that and closed the door slowly, hoping that, when she turned around, nobody would be waiting in the stairs. 

There was no one. The wizard, the seneschal or the chamberlain probably had better things to do than to stay behind their door. After all, he had taken her virginity already, who cared anymore. But just in case, Tryphine descended slowly to avoid any sound. The man was speaking again, reminding her to meet in the library. She tried to picture a mental map of Camelot and it’s infinite halls and stairs and where did they end—if they ended somewhere at all—and took the main corridor first, and the third set of finished stairs. She felt as if there was someone behind her, but never turned around, thinking it may as well be the ghost himself. She entered the library, and closed slowly, knowing full well he was behind her. 

The man was a young one, his hair was dark and long, he had a cleft chin and was very pale, probably he had been so even in life. That man reminded her of Anne Morgause, and after a quick stormbraining, Tryphine realized he was Gorlois. Why would he haunt Camelot of all places, his enemy’s home, so far from where he died? Gorlois invited her to take a seat on a nearby chaise longe. 

“Please, tell me why you contacted me," Tryphine said while taking seat, her eyes still fixated on the man. 

“I told you I had very important information about Arthur, and it’s true: your husband is doomed, for a terrible curse hangs over his head," his voice was so calm, and his demeanor so nonchalant, that Tryphine would have jumped at him had he been still alive. 

“That’s impossible! Arthur can’t be doomed, you’re a liar!” she didn’t care if she was heard, not anymore. That slander she would not allow. Who knew if it hadn’t been Gorlois the one to curse him in the first place. Yes, that’s what it was, Gorlois had cursed Arthur after having been murdered by Uther, after his wife had been ravaged and stolen and his children sent away from their land. It was an unfair destiny, but more unfair it was to curse an innocent man that wasn’t even born yet! “You will pay for this! For your curse!”

“My curse? No, you’re wrong. The curse came upon Arthur in the moment he drew his father’s sword out of the stone. I cursed Uther in my last breath, that is true; he got what he deserved in the end, so my curse was more than fulfilled. No, someone else cursed your beloved husband, Tryphine, and no one can do anything about it.”

He was lying. He had to be lying. Gorlois said he was sorry, that he merely wanted her to know… And she threw the candelabra at him, making the ghost disappear and some books in a shelf to catch fire. She shrieked and hurried up to take off a sheet of the chaise to turn it off. It only worsened, and in that moment somebody opened the door and kicked over the fabric, even threw another one, a cloak she recognized. Arthur was able to run off the fire, and he then turned towards Tryphine, holding her shoulders while also shaking. 

“What has happened?” there was no violence in his voice, only concern for her, just like the one reflecting in his eyes and heavy breath. 

“I…” she couldn’t tell him she had seen a ghost who had told her of a curse upon him, or else she would be considered a craze and effectively sent away by Merlin, “I don’t know. I was having a nightmare of a man saying you were cursed, and then I woke up here, and the books were burning and…”

Arthur kissed her forehead, lulling something to calm her down. “You’ve probably had a sleepwalking episode, love,” he huged her softly, waiting for her to react, “nothing to be worried about”.

He was so good, she thought. She returned his embrace and closed her eyes, accomodating herself against him, looking instinctively for him. Tryphine could hear Arthur’s heart drumming inside his chest. She smiled unconsciously, and was already asleep again when Arthur picked her up and carried her back to their bedroom. She slept well, and had a good dream, but Gorlois' warning still remained in her mind.


End file.
